


Matters of Wellness

by Emmithar



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Comfort, Hosea is the best dad, Hurt/Comfort, Post-BATPM, Recovery, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: The low hum, the crinkle of paper, the earthy scent of herbs betraying the fact it was none other than Hosea who had decided to grace him with his presence. He listened as the man shuffled about, the chair-a permanent fixture as of late-drawn closer to his bedside.It was routine, almost. The cloth, dried and stiff, was pulled from his forehead, only to be replaced by his hand. Fingers resting against fevered skin, pausing a moment before a muted sigh came out. Arthur knew he was still warm, could rightly feel the burn of fever-though far less than the raging inferno those first few nights.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A glimpse into Arthur's recovery after BATPM.In other words, Hosea is the best dad out there.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 19
Kudos: 90





	Matters of Wellness

**Author's Note:**

> Just something small that came to me the other night, and had to share the comfort. Hope you all enjoy :)

He's alone when he wakes.

An odd sensation, seeing as _someone's_ always been there these past days. Watching over him, tending to him, helping...

The solitude is ambivalent. He typically prefers seclusion, the entirety of the reasons for his departures, but in some ways the forced companionship has helped lessen the drawls of agony. Had helped to tamper his suffering, if only just. The constant reassurance of whispered words, the gentle drag and dab of a wetted cloth against fevered skin, calloused hands that worked free the tangles of his ratted hair. All of it working in tandem to help soothe his hurts and make his aches almost bearable.

Almost.

The rest of the pain chased away a pinprick of morphine. He could see, now, why Swanson preferred the vice. A flood a mind-numbing substance racing through him, weighing him down, drowning out the world around him. Something so sweet and yet so brief-

They hadn't allowed him to indulge in that for a few days now. Pain kept at bay with more muted tonics as the unrelenting agony died down into a more substantial ache. He was better able to deal with it now; even as he lay awake, partially numb to the world.

It was well into the midst of the day.

Outside his canvass walls, drawn down for a glimpse of privacy, he could hear the others shuffling about their day. Grimshaw barking out orders and chasing after the ladies, Abigail pleading with Jack to stay away from the water's edge lest he end up muddy or worse; unable to swim like his father. Uncle, he presumed, must be up to his old antics, if the sour, off-key notes were anything to indicate his state.

He could hear the horses, too, if he really strained. Chuffs and snorts from them, and from Kieran, the former O'Drsicoll, a gentle, almost singsong voice, as he kept after them.

The whole world, it seemed, still going on despite his affliction.

Had he more energy, he might have convinced himself to move. To get up and stop being so damn lazy. As it were, he could barely keep his eyes open. Lids heavy from exertion, head nodding against the inviting draw of slumber. So much so that it was of no difficulty to feign sleep when he heard his tent flap open, feet shuffling in.

The low hum, the crinkle of paper, the earthy scent of herbs betraying the fact it was none other than Hosea who had decided to grace him with his presence. He listened as the man shuffled about, the chair-a permanent fixture as of late-drawn closer to his bedside.

It was routine, almost. The cloth, dried and stiff, was pulled from his forehead, only to be replaced by his hand. Fingers resting against fevered skin, pausing a moment before a muted sigh came out. Arthur knew he was still warm, could rightly feel the burn of fever-though far less than the raging inferno those first few nights.

He heard the cloth being dunked in a nearby bucket, a grimace as it was wrung out. Damp and cooling, back against his forehead, helping to chase away the heat. Several more seconds passed of silence, before he spoke.

“You awake?”

For a fleeting moment he considered continuing the act. He really didn't have the strength to carry on a conversation, already fighting the pull of exhaustion; would have already given in if the relentless throb beneath his skin would just give him the moment he needed to drift off.

Despite better judgment, he shifted. Turned his way, eyes barely open a crack. It was lighter than he expected; wincing as he met his gaze. A knowing smile on the man's face as he watched him.

“I suspected as much.”

To that, he let out a hum. Unable and unwilling to find any words to answer with. Not that he was much for conversation to begin with; fanciful words all but escaping him in the best of times. Now it felt as though he was attempting to crawl uphill through yards of thickets to find even the simplest of thoughts.

“You reckon you ready to sit up a bit; try and eat something?”

He didn't even grace that with an answer. Head turned away and eyes drifting close. Hoping the subject would be dropped in favor of leaving him be. It would take more than that to persuade the other, Hosea prodding him from his side.

“Oh, come now. You haven't eaten since you've come on home. I know you must be hungry-probably will make you feel better.”

That was doubtful. Arthur found himself full of skepticism at the mere thought. They had tried, these past few days. Bringing in bowl after bowl of crude porridge, of weak stew-something, _anything_ , in attempt to persuade him.

He had indulged them. Their fanciful whims. But hadn't gotten more than a few spoonfuls down before his stomach revolted, and violently so. The most they'd had managed successfully was water, and some of Hosea's tea the man was ever insistent on forcing down his ragged throat. He'd done alright with that these past days, and he wasn't very willing to test the waters with something new. Not quite yet.

Hosea, apparently, wasn't so willing to cede. His voice ever too caring and patient as he went on. “We'll have you eat, then get you a little something to help with your pain. Sound good?”

“Pain ain't too bad,” he breathed quietly, fully ignoring the first suggestion still. Near him, he heard Hosea chuckle, a bit of mirth playing in his voice as he cards fingers through his grimy hair.

“No? Well, I suppose that furrow on your brow is the result of you thinking too hard, then.”

He cracked open an eye at that, turning back to Hosea who's still watching him intently. A soft, almost morose smile on his face; as though he's barely keeping himself together for Arthur's sake and nothing else. It lasts for but a moment; that fragile facade replaced by something more stout, more stoic as the man moves.

“Come on; we'll have Pearson skim off some of the broth from the stew.”

He pulls the blankets back, the motion sending a shiver and a chill through him. A groan escaping clenched teeth at the motion.

“Hosea...I ain't up for that,” he pleads pityingly.

“Oh, nonsense,” the man prattles, though his face is turned in a questionable grimace. His tone changing, just slightly. “Let's get you into something clean first, what do you say?”

It wasn't a question. Arthur knew he was ripe; a rank odor he had all but become accustomed to these past days. What with the blood and sweat and the damn near sepsis he had been endued with, it honestly wasn't that surprising.

Wasn't the first time he'd been cleaned up either. He'd come back in nothing more than his union suit-all which was torn, tattered and soiled from his brief imprisonment. Only vaguely aware of the ruined material being stripped from his battered and bruised body. That first night spent covered by nothing save for blankets as his fever raged. Dressed the following day in a light blue flannel that was now soaked; plastered against his skin. His body all but intent on wringing every drop of sweat out through his pores.

It couldn't be helped, he knew. Even so, his cheeks burned from more than just the fever as Hosea methodically stripped the sodden material off. Arthur sat pliantly as his skin was washed briefly, before being redressed in something fresh. The entire ordeal seemingly not worth it in the end, his chest heaving as though he'd run ten miles without stopping despite the fact he'd done nothing other than allow himself to be manipulated first way than another. His skin already plastered in a fine sheen of sweat, the fresh material already close to being sodden as he was laid back down.

“That's better, ain't it?”

In some ways, he did feel better. In others, he felt worse. The warm comfort of his bed inviting him back, as though missing his brief departure. His chest hitching as his breath caught, barely registering the motion of the blankets drawn back over him. For a moment he was caught in the spinning of the world, the pounding of his heart drowning everything out around him.

It took a few moments before he convinced himself to peel open his eyes; realizing just then he hadn't been moved or prodded as first insisted. His gaze drifted lazily over to where Hosea sat, watching curiously. The man was leaned back in the chair, the book in his hands. He was only a few pages in-though the heavy creases suggested it had been read before, perhaps a dozen times if not more.

“Thought we was gonna eat?” Arthur wondered dully. Not that he wanted to. Rather he was curious due to curiosity's sake. Wondering why the man had suddenly changed his mind so quickly.

Forgetful? Not likely.

Pity? Perhaps.

“We will,” Hosea answered, not even glancing up from his book. “Just take a moment; catch your breath.”

Pity.

Normally he'd despise something like that, but for now he was content with it. Content with anything if it simply meant he didn't have to move. His eyes drifted close once more, Arthur doing his best to settle his erratic breaths. Battling the fresh wave of pain that seemed to be creeping ever closer. Each second stretching out into an impossibly long minute. Every minute feeling as though it was an hour before he could feel any measure of control seeping back in. A raw, sour taste in the back of his mouth. Thick and heavy on his tongue. Throat dry as he tried to swallow.

He needed a drink.

Something to rid the taste in his mouth, and soothe his achy throat. He forced his eyes open, intent on asking, knowing Hosea would oblige. Though his voice was lost as he took in his surroundings. Blinking dumbfoundedly as reality slowly swept back to him.

It had been more than just a moment.

The telltale signs all too clear.

The golden yellow of the light had faded into a more muted orange. The rancorous clamor of earlier had faded into low murmurs, a soft gentle strum of a guitar barely heard. But perhaps the most telling sign was Hosea himself. The man still sat near, still engrossed in his book. The crease of the pages far more than they were just moments ago-more than half. He felt no more rested than he had earlier though, surely a cruel trick played on him by some higher power.

He watched the older man read for a time-taking note of every line, of every wrinkle that adorned his face. The essence of time gone by, a reminder on just how many years it had been. Locks of blonde hair long faded into silver, though the youthful vigor in his eyes had never faded. Still sharp as ever, narrowed and the skimming the pages in front of him. A look that Arthur knew too well; he'd seen it before. Long ago. The man sat by his bedside, reading to while away the hours while he recovered.

He'd always said his first love was acting; his second, reading. Though there was close competition with a few others, he knew. He waited until a few pages had turned before he cleared his throat, catching his attention. Hosea looking at him from over the book, a smile on his face.

“Ah, there you are.”

Said in such a way as though Arthur had actually gone somewhere and only just returned. Hosea sat up, leaning forward, a hand brushing against his flesh. A content sigh this time.

“Fever's gone down; how you holding up?”

“Could use something to drink.”

“Ah-sounds well enough,” the man leaned over to set the book down; a flask must have been kept nearby on the ground, because it was in his hands the moment he sat back up. The chill of the water long lost, betraying the fact it had been sitting there for a time. Though Arthur had hardly any complaints, relishing in each sip as it soothed his throat. Feeling as though it was perhaps the sweetest thing he'd had in years.

Feeling years too old as he was laid back down. The hand never leaving his, a gentle squeeze meant to bring comfort. To catch his attention. He met Hosea's gaze, the man watching him close.

“You up for eating yet?”

“Where's Dutch?” he wondered, avoiding the question. Changing the topic to something different. Anything different.

“He's been busy,” Hosea answered without pause. Almost too quick. Almost as though it was rehearsed. “Keeping after the camp, and all that.”

“Ain't seen him,” Arthur mused, turning away. Found himself unable to look at other as he went on. “Not since I come back.”

“Ah, Arthur-don't be ridiculous. He spent a few good hours, sittin' right here in this chair,” the man laughed softly, “don't you remember? He's been in here a couple of times; he even talked with you once. Carried on a whole conversation.”

He didn't remember. There were quite a few things he was unsure of. Memories fleeting and intertwined with fevered dreams. Laden even more so by the influence of morphine; so wonderfully sweet but for an unnerving price. Hosea seemed to see that on his face; seemed to notice the far-off look he got for a moment. He squeezed Arthur's arm gently, pulling him back from those thoughts.

“Tell you want, I'll see if he's about, when I get you some food,” Hosea offered.

He shook his head to that. There was a pang of something-not quite guilt, but close, welling within him. He didn't need someone to go off and drag the man here; there were undoubtedly more important things to be done around camp, especially with him out of commission. Dutch didn't need the distraction. Camp, he suspected, was struggling-all the while he laid up here in bed, withering away. Last thing he needed was to burden the man with frivolous wants.

No-he couldn't ask the attention of anyone, let alone Dutch. Dutch ,who had to watch over a camp of twenty strong. Dutch who had to dredge up some plan to escape the reaches of the law, the Pinkertons, the O'Driscolls. Dutch who had more important things to tend to than Arthur, who already was more or less on the mend. Hell, he felt bad enough taking up so much of Hosea's time, and to ask for Dutch was frankly unthinkable.

And even if the man came, what would it change?

Nothing.

It would change nothing. Dutch would come, would give him a pitying look; the same look he had adorned John with all those months ago when they were back up in Colter. He'd shuffle nervously, hands braced on his hips to keep them from fidgeting. Looking everywhere except at him, because he couldn't bear to look.

Couldn't bear to see his own son laid up and useless to him. Because he knew it was true; knew that he was little more dead weight at this point. A fact that wouldn't change until he got better. Until he got back on his feet, and back out there. Once he started bringing money back; that's when things would change.

And to do that, he needed to try. He let out a sigh, meeting the man's gaze once more.

“Recokon I'm ready for somethin' to eat,” he admitted softly. The uproarious turmoil in his stomach had faded, mutating into a more pressing, familiar pang.

“That's a good lad,” Hosea seemed pleased to hear that. He helped him to sit up. A slow, laborious task – Arthur unable to help much, and he knows that he's not exactly on the light side. But they managed, Arthur settling back against the rearranged pillows that help prop him up.

He felt dizzy, and it must have shown because Hosea held onto him a moment, watching and waiting. Finally Arthur gave him a nod, letting him know that he was alright.

“You be fine here for a few while I go on and get you something?”

“Ain't going nowhere, Hosea,” Arthur pointed out. As though it needed to be pointed out. Hosea gave his arm a squeeze before leaving.

It felt strange, sitting up like he was. He hadn't done this since getting back home. Not for this length of time. His heart still racing at the meager exertion despite the fact he wasn't doing anything. His head, light and heavy all at the same time. A result, no doubt, a combination of a lack of food and the illness that had swept through him.

He hoped Hosea was right; that eating would make him feel better. There's a voice, somewhere in the far recesses of his mind, that tell him it's true. He's on the first steps to recovery, however small they seem. Even so, it takes a lot of convincing when Hosea returns. The bowl heavy in his hands, weighing like the entire pot itself and not just a few meager mouthfuls. It's salty; heavy and thick and it soothes his sore throat.

“That sitting alright?” Hosea wonders, watching him. As though waiting for the same routine to start once again, poised and ready with the rag nearby lest they need it.

To both of their surprise, Arthur finds himself nodding, taking another small mouthful. Pausing in between each bite despite the sudden urge to devour it all. He's too tentative and afraid of it all coming back up. It's almost mournful when he finishes the last of it; spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl-seeking out any last morsel that might have been missed. He's almost tempted to ask for more. Almost.

Hosea taking the empty vessel from him, a pleased look on his face. “We'll let that sit awhile; see how it holds up.”

“Sure,” he drawls in response. Hands loose in his lap, fingers tapping now that he has nothing to hold. Nothing to do.

“How's the pain?” the man wonders next to him.

“'s fine.”

Better, he'd like to say. Surely better than before. His arm still hurts, there is no arguing in that. He figures it will hurt for some time. More alarming is the general weakness. He can move it, but it sure takes a monumental amount of effort to do even minuscule things, and Arthur hasn't even entertained the thought of indulging in more strenuous tasks.

“Well; I'll go on, brew you some tea. Should help to take the edge of it.”

“Whiskey does the same thing,” he pointed out, “tastes a whole lot better too.”

“Drink yourself stupid and get sick?” Hosea wondered, standing. “You can already accomplish one of those without whiskey.”

“Being stupid?” he wonders, biting back a laugh as the man playfully cuffs him.

“With an attitude like that, I wouldn't be surprised if you accomplish both.”

“Yeah-you go beating on me, and I sure as hell will.”

“Have to get my licks in now,” Hosea pointed out, “won't be able to once you're back on your feet.”

He laughed; something genuine. A feat he hadn't thought possible for some time now. The absurdity of the comment tickling something inside of him. Even if he could, and surely he could, he never would. He'd happily trade blows with most of the fools here, _had_ traded blows with many; John typically the unfortunate target of his for those many years growing up.

But not Dutch. Not Hosea.

Never Hosea.

For all the antics they got up to, for all the trouble they stirred up, Arthur had never found himself frustrated with the man. Hosea once proclaiming it was his charm.

Maybe it was.

Something warm, something comforting. Silently grateful for all his efforts. Told him as much, when he had come on back. The comment seemingly out of place, if any indication by the man's frown. A hand pressed to his forehead; one that he batted away in irritation.

“Ain't running a fever, old man.”

“Had to make sure,” Hosea sat near him, cup pressed into his hands. “What with you talking funny, and all.”

“Be the last time I ever show appreciation,” he mumbled, sipping at the heated liquid. Grimacing at the taste.

It was bitter; not horribly so, but surely not something he'd willingly indulge in. Still he drank it, letting the warmth pool in his stomach. Feeling the pull of exhaustion-along with something else, beckoning him to sleep.

So much so that he didn't protest as Hosea helped him lay back down. The covers brought back up around him. Hoping, faintly, that when he woke next time he'd feel better. Feeling as though he might.

He heard the sounds near him; the creak of the chair, the shuffling of paper. It was enough to cause him to crack open an eye, watching as the man took up his book once more.

“You ain't gotta stay here,” Arthur grumbled. He didn't need someone to keep a constant eye on him; he wasn't a kid anymore.

“I know that,” Hosea answered without pause.

“Go on,” he pressed, “sure there's plenty of other things you oughta be doing.”

“Oh, there is,” Hosea agreed. “Why do you think I'm in here? Only damn place I can read in peace-now, get some rest.”

“Hosea-”

“Get some rest,” the man cut him off, looking his way. Clearly done with the conversation. In one sense, it frustrated him. In another, he found some comfort. Touched by the mere fact the man wasn't simply walking out and leaving him. And Hosea-well, Arthur had never been one to argue with him much.

So he gave in, let himself drift. On the verge of consciousness when he muttered the words. Sure that they were lost, nothing more than a mumble.

“'M glad you're here.”

A slight pause, a breath of air, and he could imagine the man nodding. His voice, once again impossibly soft and kind.

“I know, my boy. I know."


End file.
